


And Then There Were Two

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Complete, Cults, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mystery, POV Third Person, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 10,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: It's quiet at Baker Street.Too quiet.It's been a year since Mary died, but only a few months since the events of the Final Problem, and Sherlock and John have fallen into a state of despairing and monotony.So when a case involving a vicious cult on the English Country side appears, they quickly jump to go undercover as Sean Harmony and John Wales.But how can Sherlock keep a delicate John from breaking? And how can John come to terms with his love for his detective?Most importantly, what really happened the night of the Final Problem?





	1. Monotony

SHERLOCK'S POV  
  
Life had become. . .monotonous. We fell into a strange sort of pattern, like we had always done, except it seem endlessly staler, like some kind of dark gradient had been painted over our previous lives. I should think it was Mary's death that sealed this, though, I suppose nothing had been quite the same since I returned. I knew the slowness, the stiff 'good mornings' and the tossing back and forth at night was my doing. Everything, all of John's pain, was my doing. I made no outright attempt to repair it, either. Instead, I carried on as if it were four years ago, before I jumped from St. Bart's and ruined what had once been effortless.  
 I filled my days with cases and cigarettes and music, composing melody after melody and listening to story after story, each more outlandish and fantastic. But they didn't seem to do for me what they once did.   
 I tossed almost everyone aside with a wave of my hand, or solved them without leaving the flat.   
 That is, before Mr. Gregson entered the scene. 

 

JOHN'S POV

 

The nightmare's had come back.   
 That's the first thing I remember from that month.   
 It wasn't just the war, either. It was Mary, cold and lifeless in my arms. It was Eurus, dead eyed controlling. It was Moriarty, torturing the city years after he had died. But mostly, it was Sherlock.   
 I'd be lying to myself if I said Sherlock wasn't a big part of my life. Sherlock was a _huge_ part of my life, maybe _too_ big a part. It was as if he had some sort of power over me. . . .manifesting not only in dangerous situations and people, but in himself.   
 I don't know exactly what it was. Other people liked Sherlock Holmes for his cleverness, his genius ability to see through everything and everyone. I think Sherlock Holmes trapped me with something completely different: his humble, entirely raw humanity.   
 I don't think people looked at it enough, exactly how human Sherlock is. Completely driven by reckless emotions. As he'd say,  _love is a vicious motivator._  
 I don't know if it was truly the monotony of existence that drove him, or something else.   
 I just knew the image of Sherlock lying in a pool of blood on the pavement had returned, and I didn't like it. 


	2. The Client

JOHN'S POV  
  
Gregson was in a panic.   
 Me and Sherlock actually knew this bloke, a detective from Scotland Yard.   
 Short, salt and pepper hair with an unkept appearance.  
 Sherlock hated him.   
_"Terrible excuse for a detective. Half of 'his'  most successful cases were solved by me."_  
 I didn't ask why he never took credit. 

 

  
 "Don't waste oxygen, Gregson, tell us what it is you're so upset about," Sherlock snapped.  
 Gregson was gulping in huge breaths as if he'd just run a mile, so I pulled up a chair and gestured for him to sit.   
 Then Sherlock and I took our opposite seats, just as we always had, and a warm sense of familiarity washed over me as I took out my notebook and pen.   
 "I've come straight from the Yard," Gregson growled. "Ran nearly halfway 'ere before finding a cab, dammit. You."   
 He pointed at me accusingly.   
 I looked at him, raising my eyebrows.   
 "You can't be here for this. Lestrade said Holmes, not his sidekick."  
 "Dr. Watson is imperative to my process," Sherlock said coldly, taking me by surprise. Sherlock rarely complimented me, though he did once in a while snap at a client who demanded they talk with him alone. "He stays, or you go."   
 Gregson sighed, clearly frustrated.   
 "Fine. Listen, 'cause I've got half an hour before I have to go back."  
 "Pray, tell us what happened."   
  _Pray tell us._  
 For all his brains, Sherlock was a pretentious bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel about case fics? Do they bore you? Does it make it more interesting? Let me know in the comments!


	3. Gregson’s Narrative

“It started about a month ago in Lancashire.

 These people bought a huge estate and we didn’t think a thing of it, until other people started flocking to it.

 It started out with just three or four but then there were suddenly thirty bloody people in this place. All living together.”

 “‘Course, at this point we went to check it out, since it seemed a bit odd, only to find out they were all part of some strange religion they’d founded themselves, all based around one man called Gereh, apparently the founder.”

 “I wasn’t listening much when they explained it, but it seems to be that they believe this man to be some sort of half-divine diety.” 

 “Well, it was certainly strange but there wasn’t nothing we could do ‘cept keep an eye on them.”

”Sure enough, a month later we go to check in and something seems off. We poke around a bit and realize the head count don’t add up. Some bloke’s missing.” 

“Come to find out he’d passed away and they’d buried him themselves. Say he died of a heart attack and were reluctant to tell us where he was buried.”

 “Now it’s been months and the autopsy report shows the man’s been poisoned. Of course, we went to question them more but no one will say a thing.” 

 “We can’t charge them all for the murder, Mr. Holmes. We need our culprit. Will you, on behalf of the Scotland Yard, take this case?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I totally made up this cult so sorry if something similar exists (is there a religion with a man named Gereh?)


	4. Brimstone

SHERLOCK'S POV  
  
"The man, Gereh. Did you meet him?"  
 Gregson shook his head.   
 "Wouldn't let us. They have him locked in some room--if he even is real, and they slide food and water in there. We were worried about that, too. We're working on convincing them gently--Lestrade doesn't wanna bust in, says people are sensitive about religious stuff and we better tread lightly."   
 Leave it to the Yard to not question what could be a crucial witness. The case seemed new, raw, like they've barely scratched the surface of what could be a deep, sinister plot.  Just the kind I like  
 "I'll take the case, Gregson."   
 He sighed in relief.   
 "Provided," I added sharply, "that you let me do my job."   
 "You mean ignoring legalities and tampering with evidence?"  
 "Just the sort."   
 "Of course. Here's the address."   
 He handed me a slip of paper, then stood to leave.  
  
  


JOHN'S POV  
  
"What'd you think, Sherlock?" I asked the moment the door had closed. It sounded fascinating, a cult! We'd done cases with all sorts of lunatics--serial killers, pyschopaths, but never this particular brand of crazy.   
 "At least an eight, I'd say," Sherlock said with a quirk of a smile. "You'll join me?"   
 "Of course."   
 Sherlock turned away but I could see his grin.   
 "Good. We'll depart around. . ." He checked his watch. "Eight."  
 "Should I bring--?"  
 "This? Yes." He tossed me my pistol and I caught it clumsily.   
 

JOHN'S POV  
  
"What'd you think, Sherlock?" I asked the moment the door had closed. It sounded fascinating, a cult! We'd done cases with all sorts of lunatics--serial killers, pyschopaths, but never this particular brand of crazy.   
 "At least an eight, I'd say," Sherlock said with a quirk of a smile. "You'll join me?"   
 "Of course."   
 Sherlock turned away but I could see his grin.   
 "Good. We'll depart around. . ." He checked his watch. "Eight."  
 "Should I bring--?"  
 "This? Yes." He tossed me my pistol and I caught it clumsily.   
 "We will be lodging with these. . .people." He said the word "people" like he was saying "urine." He shook his head. "But we mustn't make presumptions about them. There maybe something deeper than meet's the eye."   
 Him and his mysterious phrases. It's not a mystery novel from the 18th century, for God's sake.   
  


SHERLOCK'S POV

Though John's eyes remained sunken from a lack of sleep, I could see from his flushed skin and his jumper (the hideous beige one he wore on our first case together) that he was excited by the idea of leaving the flat with a new purpose in mind.   
 If there was one thing I learned about John Watson in our time together, it's that without excitement, he does not thrive. He's always saving something or someone.   
 Because John Watson loves war, and if I needed to give him war to make him stay, I would. 

 

We left at 8:00 and took a plane to Lancashire, arriving at 9:17.   
 We then went to the address (450 Brimstone Avenue) by cab.   
 Upon arriving the first thing I noticed was that the building was not level, which wouldn't be surprising considering it was built on a very rocky hillside. The second thing I noticed was that it was a very muddy area, also not surprising because it was wet season. The third thing I noticed was that the stone facade was at least a hundred years old and that someone had made a poor attempt to repair a cracked buttress with cement.   
 I noticed many other things, as well, almost none of which turned out to be of any importance. The only thing that stuck out to me very distinctly was that the window on the third floor, which was barred by two thick wooden planks.   
As it turned out, this fact would be of the utmost importance to an infinitely strange case.   
  
 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all I know about Lancashire is that it's a beautiful English county with a rich country side and it takes *about* an hour and fifteen minutes to get there by plane from London. Sorry for all other inaccuracies there maybe.


	5. "Norbury"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm switching to third person. I'm sorry, it's just easier to write in.

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER  
  


There were some things John Watson hated with a passion.   
Travel was one of them.  
There were a lot of reasons to hate travel—long lines, security checks, cramped spaces. But the thing John hated most was the quiet.   
It seemed to be everywhere—in the cab on the way to the airport, at the cafe he stopped at to get a cup of poorly made over-priced coffee, and at the gate waiting to board their plane.   
Once they had boarded (after Sherlock had hit his head on several things and offended several people including the captain) John attempted to lose himself in a novel.   
But too quickly the main character annoyed him so much with his own stupidity and mediocre story line that he threw the book down on his lap and resorted to staring out the window.   
He knew immediately that this put him at risk—that soon he'd be tumbling down rabbit holes of thoughts and anxieties.   
His chest started to tighten at the thought and his throat went dry. Suddenly feeling very trapped in his seat by the window, he went to stand just as the seat belt sign lit up and plopped back down in his chair, defeated.   
Sherlock was next to him with his hands steepled beneath his chin, clearly absorbed in his Mind Palace. In a way, he looked pretty like that. With his dark curls tumbling over his forehead and his eyes closed in concentration. He looked. . . .peaceful. It was so rare for him.   
John almost didn't want to disturb him—it was so hard to get him out of that state—but he couldn't help himself.  
“Sherlock?”  
No reply.   
“Sherlock?” He shook his shoulder a bit. “I know you can hear me, you prick. Sherlock! Norbury!”  
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he grabbed John's arm in alarm.   
“What's wrong?” His eyes were scanning John's face like a laser, and John realized he hadn't thought past this point in his plan.   
“I—erm—“ What was he supposed to say? _I was on the verge of a panic attack and had to wake you. Sorry.  
_ He swallowed hard.   
“John, your tremor.”   
His hand _was_ shaking.   
He took a deep, drawn out breath. _This is stupid. There's no reason to be panicking. We're just on a plane. Going to a case._  
Sherlock's hand was still on his arm.   
“Are you worried? Is it about the case? We can go back, I don't have to take it—“  
“I'm fine. It's nothing, I'm fine.”   
“But your breathing is elevated and your hand is shaking and you said our emergency word—“  
“I'm fine, Sherlock. I—I'm sorry, I don't know why I did it.”   
He slumped back in his chair, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.   
Sherlock was staring at him like he was some sort of puzzle with a missing piece.   
Then, Sherlock said, voice barely a whisper,   
“Were you thinking about her?”  
“No.”  
“It's okay to—“  
“Stop.”   
“I'm sorry.”   
Sherlock let go of his arm.   
They didn't speak the rest of the way there.

 


	6. Sherlock Makes a Deduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be enclosing a specialized playlist in the comments if you want to listen to it while you read :) enjoy. (Post script, in the original canon, they really DID have a case with the KKK and Sherlock really was disgusted by it)

They were met at the gates by Lestrade. “Thank God you're here. I'm. . .well, I wouldn't say stumped, but. . .”  
“You haven't interviewed Gereh yet?” Sherlock cut in sharply, taking in every detail of the property as they walked to the door. “Oh, and have you found out his real name?”   
“Real name?” Lestrade said. “They said his real name is Gereh.”   
“And you took their word for it?”   
Greg winced at Sherlock's glare.   
“Well, yes, I looked him up. He seems to have quite a following.”   
“Is he white?”   
“Sorry?”   
“Gereh. Is he caucasian?”  
“Sherlock,” John hissed. Generally, as a rule, John had never seen Sherlock make assumptions about race.   
  
“They're all just _people_ , John,” he'd say, “They're all the same. Indian, Irish, Lebanese—whatever, they're all still idiots wrapped up in they're silly, predictable motives.”   
They did have one very disturbing case involving a member of the KKK. John saw a bit of Sherlock's righteous outrage then. He'd put the man behind bars faster than he'd put away anyone. Though closure for the victims family was a bit harder.   
He'd seen Sherlock, awake well into the early morning, re-watching the appeal. He did that, sometimes. On cases that were delicate. On cases where they lost someone in the process. And in this case, it was only a child.   
“Disgusting, isn't it?” he'd growled when he heard John behind him. “Senseless. All for what?” John had heard the slight tremble in his voice.  
“I know,” he'd said. “But you did good, Sherlock. He's behind bars now.”   
“Justice does not undo a crime, John.”   
“I know.”  
John was careful ever since that first time he'd seen Sherlock like that. So vulnerable. He didn't understand now how he could ever think Sherlock didn't care.   
  
“Oh, hush, John. It's important.”   
“Yes,” Lestrade said finally.   
“Irish, then?” Lestrade blinked.   
“How'd you—“  
“I have my suspicions, Geoff. Come, John. I need to look at the garden.”   
  
  
“You really should start saying Greg's name right, you know,” John muttered as they stepped behind the house.   
“Hmm, what?”   
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and looked at a trampled plant. “Well, this is no use to me. No doubt the Yard has been traipsing about this place. Ah, there's the tree.” The tree where they'd supposedly buried one of their own. It was a tall, sturdy oak, though it looked out of place on the grassy hillside. The body had already been excavated, so all that remained as a large, coffin sized ditch.   
“Body must've been here for at least a week,” Sherlock murmured as he touched the thriving soil and maggots. “The flies laid eggs, so maybe nine days.”   
“Gross,” John muttered, jotting it down anyway.   
“I wonder how the Yard found out.”   
“Maybe someone squealed on them.”   
“It's possible.”   
He didn't sound sure.   
“Let's go inside and meet this people. Should be interesting.”   
John snorted.

 


	7. A  New Request From Scotland Yard

“Hold up.”   
Greg stopped them at the gates and sighed heavily. “I need to ask something of you two. Now, mind you, this is a delicate case. . .certain. . .measures must be taken in it.”  
“You want us to go undercover?” Sherlock said sharply. Greg blinked.   
“How did you? Oh, never mind. Yes, I want you to go undercover. Gain trust. There's no evidence. The only way we can really take this to court is with a confession. Otherwise, it'll go cold.”   
John looked up at Sherlock's profile. His expression was unreadable to the naked eye, but John caught the quirk of his mouth right before he looked back at Greg.   
“Fine. We'll go undercover.”   
John frowned.  
“Do I get a say in this, or. . .”   
“You'll need to change, then. I have some clothes in the van. Not you, John. You should fit in fine.” John looked down at his jumper and Sherlock snickered. “As for pseudonyms, pick what you like, just make sure you stick to it. Come this way so they don't see you.”   
When exactly Lestrade had decided they'd go undercover, given that they weren't even real detectives, was beyond John. But this did add a new appeal to the case. He just hoped his acting was good enough.

“You'll wear a wire at all times, just in case someone happens to say something.”   
“Won't they be suspicious?” Sherlock asked. “After all, police and detectives poking around, then two new people want to join they're. . .religion.”   
“From what I've seen of these people, they're not the sharpest tools in the shed,” Greg scoffed.  
“Sharp enough to fool you,” Sherlock muttered. “But then, that isn't hard now, is it?”   
Greg scowled as he tossed Sherlock some clothes and handed them both a wire.   
“Keep it hidden, for God's sake. Don't start playing with it or it could fall—”  
“I know how to wear a wire, Gavin. Oh, one more thing.”  
“Yes?”  
“How'd you find the body?”  
“Anonymous tip.”   
Sherlock grinned.   
“Perfect.”   
  


 


	8. Getting In

Sherlock did not wear jeans.   
He never really had. He owned one pair in the far back of his closet where he kept other clothes he used solely for the purpose of going undercover.   
Though this wasn't their first undercover case together, this was the first time John had ever really seen Sherlock in. . .well, _normal_ , clothes.   
His disguises were usually much more dramatic, but right now he simply wore jeans (a bit too short and yet a bit too baggy) and a plain black T-shirt (which was also too big, and sagged around his shoulders and waist. He irritably tried to tuck it in but it only made it look more flouncy). John was surprised to find he actually quite liked the look on Sherlock. It made him look less. . .intimidating.   
“What'd we do for names?” John said.   
“Hmm, use your first and last initial, it's easier to remember.”  
“Right, Shezza.”   
“Shut up.”   
They eventually landed on John Wales and Sean Harmony. John decided to keep his first name because it was relatively not suspicious, whereas Sherlock's alias seemed nearly as ridiculous as his real name.  
“It's not suspicious, I've known three Sean's and fourteen Harmony's.”   
“How the hell have you known fourteen Harmony's?”   
“It's a _common_ name, John.”   
John didn't really believe him, but after bickering over it for about fifteen minutes, they finally decided they had established their alias's and were ready to enter the scene.

 

  
Ryver Daely was no taller than 5'2, weighed about as much as a large guitar, and had a face like a mouse, sharp and pointed with huge blue eyes that didn't seem to fit quite in her skull.   
When she answered the door, she didn't act surprised to see two strange men on the steps, looking rather bedraggled. In fact, when she spoke, her voice was small but monotonous, as if she was reciting a script;

“Hello, and welcome.” She smiled. “I am Ryver. What are your names?”   
John was taken aback by the fact she had greeted them so immediately without asking who they were (like the people they usually questioned) then remembered that they probably had strangers on their threshold all the time.   
“My name is Sean,” Sherlock said, voice a bit airier than usual. “Sean Harmony. This is my friend, John Wales, a former professor of health. We've, well, we've come mostly out of curiosity, to be quite honest.” He looked up at her, making direct eye-contact for the full effect. “But we've got nowhere else to go. Poor John's brother has died and I've lost my job—”   
“Oh, you poor things,” Ryver breathed. She didn't look at them when she said it. “Come inside, you're welcome here.”   
With an exchanged look of caution, the two men followed her inside the mansion.   
It opened into what appeared to be several rooms divided by curtains, all of which had sleeping bags and other amenities strewn across the floor. There were also people who seemed to be peering out of every corner, every surface, eyes searching them curiously.  
There were children, a lot more than they expected, curled up against parents or sleeping on cots or helping with chores. The whole place was crowded, but seeping with life.   
It seemed almost. . .cheerful.   
“Everyone!” Ryver called, and immediately all eyes were on her, and all voices were quiet. “Our new friends, Sean and John, they will be staying with us.”   
Getting in was just that easy.   
Getting out was a different story.

 


	9. In Which They Lodge at Brimstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm building up to a mega plot twist so y'all better sit back and get ready to speculate on what the heck is going on with John.

Several people greeted them, and Sherlock made a quick, silent job of them.   
First was a man who introduced himself as Davy Moss, a name entirely made up, probably since he came here. He said he was a retired History teacher for a local school, but Sherlock could see plainly from the scar on his right hand (bullet graze) and the way he rolled his left shoulder constantly (the one where he would've felt the rifle's discharge) he had some sort of military backround, most likely sniper, by his secretive air.   
The second person was a women named Daisy, a mother of two and Davy's wife. Sherlock casually looked over at the children and quickly determined one of the two was not Davy's. He also saw that Daisy had gone for a light morning walk, probably to get the mail (obvious from the grass stains at the hem of her robe) that she was unhappy with Davy (she didn't stand close to him, nor touch him, and her wedding ring was varnished) and finally that she was pregnant (urinated twice in twenty minutes, ghosted her hand over her middle, and had a faint spell of nausea).   
The last person to greet them was only a child, a small, wide-eyed boy of about seven had politely come to greet them.   
Sherlock, surprisingly, smiled and knelt to his level, listening closely to his name, how high he could count, and how he had a pet dog, Sport, who liked chasing rabbits.   
John grinned, feeling a warmth creep into his chest, then remembered this was all an act.   
Funny, he could've sworn he saw Sherlock hide a smile on their way upstairs.   
  
“The men sleep in this hall,” Daisy explained, showing them to a small room. “You two can bunk in here together, if you like.”   
It was a cramped room with several unused cots in it. John's eyebrows knit.   
“The men sleep up here? Without their wives and children?”   
“Oh yes,” Daisy said. “Gereh says that men are too tempted to touch other men's wives, and that is wrong. So they stay separate.”   
John had to stifle a snort at that. So Gereh was some kind of perve, then? Sounded fitting.   
“Well, erm, thank you,” he said. “This will be perfect. Sh—Sean, let's get settled in, yeah?” He looked over to Sherlock, who was studying the hallway intensely.   
“Hmm, yes, John. Thank you, Mrs. Moss.” He gave her a polite nod.   
“Oh, Daisy is fine.” She smiled. “I'll call you up when dinner is ready.”   
And just like that, she was gone.   
  
John emptied his pockets—the only thing in them was his mobile, wallet, and notepad (along with several receipts), then promptly took his revolver (concealed beneath his jumper) and tucked it under a mattress.   
Sherlock had nothing but nicotine patches and several packs of cigarettes (he'd bought them when John wasn't looking) and his own mobile, for the sole purpose of updating Lestrade on the case.   
“Didn't know you like children, Sherlock,” John said absently, taking the detective by surprise. Sherlock's brow knit.   
“What gave you that impression, John? I've always liked children.” As he spoke, he typed:   
_“We're in—SH”_   
“Their minds aren't molded,” he continued. “Children have no preconceived ideas of life or the world. They know only what they've seen, observed.”  
_“Keep me updated—GL”_

“And they only say things they mean. Adults don't do that.”   
“Yeah, I guess so.”  
He tucked the phone away.   
“John?”   
John was looking at his hands. His tremor was back.   
Sherlock was unsure of what to do for several moments. Then, tentatively, he strode over to John's cot and took his hands gently.   
Both a flooding sense of relief and an electric wave of shock hit John. His tremor started to slow as Sherlock stroked his hand with his thumb, squeezing every so often.   
“Does this help?” he asked softly. John nodded, heat creeping to his neck and face. “John? Are you—?” Sherlock swallowed. He didn't want to do this. Not too soon. John was so delicate. “Are you ready to—?”  
“No,” John choked.  
“Okay.”   
They sat like that in silence.   
  
  
  


 


	10. The Red Tables

The dining room was, unsurprisingly, large and strangely hexagon shaped. There were ten or eleven tables scattered about the room, each large enough to fit five or six people.   
Only the women cooked (later they learned that every women in the house participated to make the massive meal) and tonight it seemed to be a soup with vegetables and rice.   
Deciding to cover ground, Sherlock and John split up, each going to different tables.   
John looked around the room helplessly for a moment before deciding on a table with five large, robust looking men that he hadn't seen on the way in.   
“Can't sit here, mate,” one said immediately.   
“Sorry?” John said.   
“Can't sit here,” he repeated. “This is the Yellow Table.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“Yellow. It's Gereh's Third Class. You're a Red Table fellow. There's three, over there.”  
He gestured to the tables in the corner.   
The Red Tables were not actually red, but did have a red ribbon tied 'round each chair. The separation of. . .Class, had he called it? Complicated things slightly. This meant it would be harder to reach those in the higher classes.   
John slunk over to Sherlock.   
“Did you know they had ranks?” he whispered.   
“Of course I did, John. Why do you think the tables are marked?”   
John rolled his eyes.   
“This will make things harder.”   
“Not if we work our way up. Now go sit down.” John silently obeyed, going to one of the other two tables.   
At this one, there were three other men.   
“You new here too?” John asked awkwardly. They looked up at him, seeming startled.   
“Oh no,” one chuckled. He was a ginger, curly haired fellow with a boyish face. “We've been here a while. We just haven't made our way up yet.”   
“Why's that?” John asked, taking in another spoonful of soup. It was mild and a bit bland, but he was starving nonetheless.   
“Have to be married to make it to Yellow,” the curly-haired one explained. “To make it to Green, you have to baptized. To make it to Blue, you have to be blessed. Only one's in Blue are Ryver, Melodia, and—” He stopped himself.   
“Who?” John asked.   
“Well, the poor man's passed away,” the red-head continued in a more hushed tone. “I forget sometimes. He'd just made it to Blue when he became ill.”   
_Interesting,_ John thought. _Very interesting._

 

After dinner, the women cleaned up and the men went upstairs. John was starting to think it a bit odd how separated they were, the men and women here. He offered to help with the cleaning up, but Daisy said that was forbidden.   
So he and Sherlock went back to their room, each with a swirling head. Upon closing and locking the door, John burst out, “He was murdered!” At the same time Sherlock exclaimed, “We need to get married!”  
They stopped and stared at each other.   
“What?” John said. Sherlock wouldn't look at him, but started rapidly texting Lestrade.   
“We need to get married, John. We can't rank up unless we get married.” John kept staring at him, dumbfounded. “Oh, stop,” Sherlock scolded. “They don't have an official priest at their weddings, so it wouldn't be real anyway—”   
“Would they let two men get married here?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock frowned.   
“I hadn't thought of that.” John put a hand to his temple. “What were you saying?”  
“Murdered,” John said, breaking the silence. “I think that man was murdered.”   
“Why?”   
John crossed the small room to his notepad, scribbling something down as Sherlock shot another text to Lestrade.   
“He had just reached their highest rank before he died,” John explained.   
“That doesn't mean he was murdered,” Sherlock said.   
“It gives someone a motive.”   
“We mustn't rely on romantic fancy to cloud our judgement, John,” Sherlock said softly. “We don't have enough data to conclude he was murdered quite yet. The examiner said the poison could've easily been contracted through a virus from a fly—“  
“Seems a bit unlikely,” John scoffed.   
“Once we eliminate the impossible—”  
“--whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, I know.”  
Sherlock smiled. His phone buzzed and he looked down at it.   
“Lestrade says they do _not_ allow same-sex marriage,” he grumbled. “How are we supposed to reach—“  
His eyes sparkled. “Oh.”  
“Sherlock, no.”   
Sherlock grinned.

 


	11. The Well

That night, John tossed and turned.

He was restless, and growing increasingly frustrated with the metal springs beneath the cot, agitating his shoulder.

Sherlock of course, decided he’d stay up, sitting cross-legged on his bed thus his hands folded.

 “Can’t sleep, John.” 

It wasn’t a question, but John was surprised he noticed. The whole Mind Palace was a hell of a blinder.

”No,” John grumbled, sitting up. “Prone to bouts of insomnia. I’m sure you’ve deduced that.” 

 “Hmm.”

Sherlock didn’t move from his position on the cot, but did grab a nicotine patch and placed it promptly on his arm with a deep sigh. 

 “I’m sorry, John,” he said softly. John didn’t look at him. “Sorry that you suffer so. It’s all at my hands.” 

 Where was this sudden sentimentality coming from? 

“You haven’t done anything.” 

Even as he said it, the words tasted wrong, poisonous. Something in the back of his mind was making him feel sick.

 “Oh, I’ve done everything, love.” 

 _Love_? 

Sherlock turned to look at him, and with a start, John realized his eyes had gone eerily dark.

  _Like Eurus’s._

”I am sorry though,” he continued sadly. “I screamed when it happened, you know.” 

_When what happened?_

“Stop it,” John snapped, fear seizing him. His chest cavity felt tight, and his hands were slick with sweat. His head seemed hazy.

 “Oh John, if only you knew how to swim.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, what’s going on? What??? Suffer.


	12. The Bee

Sherlock awoke at the crack of dawn. He'd gotten very little sleep in the first place, though he had attempted to at first.   
But John was dreaming again.   
He didn't know what about, only that he gave an occasional whimper or groan and tossed restlessly. He'd probably awaken tired.   
Not sure if he should wake him up, he eventually decided he'd leave a cup of coffee instead (that was a nice gesture, wasn't it?) and deduced when to make it so that it was warm when he arose.   
Then, he pulled on the infernal outfit Lestrade had given him and went downstairs.   
Half of the estate was already awake and bustling about, although it was barely dawn, and he was immediately greeted with a cheerful “Good morning!” from Daisy. Then, as she looked him up and down, she set down the laundry basket that had been on her hip.   
“Oh dear, you don't have your tag yet, do you? Here!” Out of her apron pocket she produced a red ribbon.   
“Thank you,” Sherlock said as pleasantly as he could, tying it around his wrist. He'd noticed right away that everyone had them, of course. They were split into two divisions: Male and Female, each which had subsections, for Men: Red, Yellow, Blue. For Women: Green, Purple, Blue. Blue remained the same because it was the highest power, according to Gereh's teachings, once you reached Blue, walls like binary gender no longer existed, instead, you became an entirely new being.   
It was clear, however, that Ryver and Melodia were both women, and used she/her pronouns anyway. They were currently the only people in Blue.   
Sherlock scanned the room for anyone in Green.   
His plan was plain, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd faked an engagement. But he'd been hoping it would be John anyway.   
He cursed himself on the fact, but it was a fact nonetheless, the ultimate human error: his unequivocal love for John Watson.   
Oh, how long he'd known. It had been years, probably since the first week of their living together. He started feeling things right away.  
But it was the bee that had confirmed it.   
A rarely sunny day in June, Mrs. Hudson had opened all the windows, and they were sitting at breakfast when a bee flew into the kitchen. And it buzzed about for a few seconds, then John stood up with an empty mug and a piece of paper, and, instead of squishing it, trapped it instead and gently shook out the window until it flew off.   
The gesture was so small, but it showed a part of John Sherlock would never forget; just how kind and patient he was. Kind enough to let such a small, insignificant part of the universe live. Kind enough to befriend him.   
He'd known from that moment he was doomed, and that he could never, never let John know. He worried, worried he would see it. See how much he loved him. Get scared off.   
How many times had he dismissed Molly just as such? Ah, but Molly didn't love him the way he loved John. Molly was obsessed with him. They were two different things.   
But he'd live and die knowing his love was unrequited. After all, John was straight. He'd loved Mary. And he was still grieving, and would be grieving her forever.   
And. . .  
Sherlock's throat closed up  
And he'd be grieving. . .  
The thought was interrupted by a piercing scream. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to make it clearly that the gender views in this religion are not a reflection of my own views at all and are in no way meant to offend anyone. I based it LOOSELY around gender in Buddhism, but I'm not a Buddhist so my knowledge there is also limited.   
>  Anyway, enjoy the pain.


	13. The Second Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's short. I've got a bit of writer's block but I'll be on my feet again soon:)

John heard the scream three sips into the mysterious coffee left on his nightstand.  
In hindsight, drinking a mysterious drink right after someone may have been poisoned was not ideal, but he was so tired and it looked so warm and honestly, if he was poisoned, good riddance.  
The moment the sound pierced the air, he leaped up and grabbed his revolver, running downstairs.  
Pushing through a horde of people in the living area, he found Sherlock crouched next to the body of a woman with a blue ribbon tied to her wrist.  
  
“She's died of asphyxiation,” John said darkly, standing up. “Choked on her own vomit.” There were several grievous wails.  
The woman had been identified as Melodia. John estimated she'd died just after midnight.  
Sherlock had disappeared, likely to text Lestrade the news, and several people were already removing the body.  
“Aren't you going to call the police?” John asked in surprise. The red haired man he'd sat with at dinner (his name was...Ronny?) looked over at him.  
“Gereh has taught us that proper burials must respect the dead. Having the police examine or remove the body would be. . .unthinkable.”  
“They already ruined poor Jenkin's funeral,” a burly woman wailed. John stepped away from the scene grimly.  
He was starting to wonder when he'd meet this Gereh fellow.  
  
He found Sherlock sitting on his cot with his legs pulled up to his chest, clearly deep in thought.  
“What'd you make of all this?” John asked him. “Do you have a theory yet?”  
“Twenty-five at the moment,” Sherlock said. “Oh, thirty now.” John tucked his revolver back under his mattress.  
“You seem to have an idea who this Gereh man is,” he said.  
“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. “A while back, before you were. . .before you moved in, I had a case involving a man who had started spreading religion in Ireland. Well, it seemed innocent enough, until someone ended up dead.” He bit his lip. “We were never able to confirm it was him, but I knew it was.”  
“So you think it was him?”  
“I don't know.”  
“Sorry, say that again?”  
Sherlock smirked at him.  
“You should get some rest, John.”  
Of course Sherlock would know he'd slept badly. He sighed as Sherlock stood and strode to the door, but then remembered something.  
“Oh Sherlock, thanks for the coffee. As long as it had no hallucinogenics in it, I mean.” Sherlock grinned, said nothing, and closed the door.

 


	14. Destruction

“ _Lovely little thing.”  
“What?”  
“How vulnerable you are.”  
_Snow crunching. A sly smirk.   
_“Vulnerable?”_ Sherlock's voice was a bit lost. Oh, how pretty. How delicate.  
_“You're an easy target, Sherlock.”_ Moriarty plucked an apple from the tree they stood below. The park was an endearing little place.   
_“I don't understand.”  
“John Watson.”   
_ Moriarty watched the other man stiffen with a chuckle. People were _so_ silly. Unrequited love. How typical.   
_“Oh Sherlock, I really thought you were extraordinary. But you're just like everyone else, aren't you? You still_ fall.”  
 _“Leave John out of this.”  
“Oh it's far too late for that, Holmes. I've already got you where I want you. In my palms. Just so long as Colonel Moran is at Baker Street, you'll do whatever I say to keep him from getting shot. Blackmail is _so _boring. But I need your help.”  
  
_ Sherlock woke with a start. His sheets were drenched in sweat.   
_Not real,_ he reminded himself. He often dreamed like this. He often dreamed _he_ was Moriarty, and he was watching his own destruction. Sometimes it seemed too real. Sometimes he felt like he was really in Moriarty's head, and he could see every little mechanism of some huge scheme to ruin Sherlock.   
Plotting your own destruction in your dreams is not a form of flattery, though Sherlock did pride himself on the occasional scheme which, carried out correctly, truly _could_ ruin a life.   
But his life was so achingly easy to ruin.   
It could be done any number of ways, but they all started and ended with John. John leaving. John being taken away. John being killed.   
Any scenario would ultimately end in his untimely death.   
He knew it wasn't healthy. Relying so heavily on one person. John was, in many ways, worse than his needle.   
He could leave the needle. He couldn't leave John.   
He remembered what John had written in a passage on his blog, once:  
  
 _“Sometimes I think I'm just one of Sherlock's habits. Just like the violin and the cigarettes and the cocaine. Just another thing to stimulate him. I amuse him, sometimes, I guess. Dunno why. I think he just likes to think aloud knowing someone's actually hearing him.”  
  
_ The passage had made his stomach knot.   
Partly because it was true.   
Partly because it wasn't.   
He remembered the time John had left the balloon in his chair. Sherlock must've sat there talking to it for hours without ever realizing it wasn't him. He'd said something when he realized, didn't he? Something rude.   
_“You know I value your little. . .contributions.”  
_ He hadn't meant to say it. He was frustrated with himself, and with John. With John for thinking he was replaceable. With himself for proving him right.   
And he'd seen John deflate a bit (the real John, not the balloon). He knew he needed to prove more exactly how valuable John was to him.   
Even now, on this case, John acted as though he was of little or no use. Sometimes, he acted as though he was only there to take notes and praise Sherlock.   
  
_“How could you not know you're my best friend?”_ John had screamed at him. It was about a month ago, and John had gone out to a pub. He'd come back plastered and angry, and Sherlock had no idea what to do.   
_“You're too good for me.”  
“Bullshit.”   
_ John had stepped toward him, and Sherlock, against all his best knowledge, had winced. That's when John froze.   
_“What? You think I'm going to beat you up again? Would you let me? I know you can fight. I've seen you, at that boxing place, remember? I bet ten quid on you.”_ There were tears in his voice then.   
_“John, go to bed, please.”  
“I didn't mean to-to—“   
_ He was becoming less coherent.   
_“I know. Go to bed, John.”_  


He thought about that night often. About the pity he'd felt, for both of them. That they'd somehow gotten stuck in this impossibly cycle and they were fighting for and against each other to end it.   
John often came home drunk those nights, and Sherlock had taken care to make sure his cheque book was locked away (at John's own request) in his drawer, and that he always got home safely (Mycroft).   
As much as he wanted to be angry at John, he couldn't. Not after what he'd been through. He could still remember Eurus's voice so well.   
_“I'm sorry.”_  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope ya'll are fully mystified by now. If you do think you know what's happened, comment your theories 'cause I'm a junky for comments ;)


	15. Doctor Doctor

That afternoon, solemnity hung over Brimstone.   
The entire estate seemed quieter, and even outside, on the rocky hillside, the birds and cicadas were silent, all except for the wind.   
He wasn't about to steal into Sherlock's plan to rank up by marriage. He wasn't going to marry some poor girl just to tell her it was all fake. He wasn't cruel enough. He'd already lied once.   
Right now, all he could focus on was the investigation.   
Sherlock had pointed him to a women named Agatha who was apparently the closest thing to a doctor this place had.   
She lived apart from the rest in what appeared to be nothing more than a shed, overgrown and certainly not stable   
The wood creaked and the whole structure seemed to sway just slightly right, as if reaching for the cliffs. The whole picture was a bit eerie.  
John rapped his knuckles on the door, and inside he heard someone seemingly scattered, clanging glass and slamming drawers.   
He peaked into a large space between wooden boards, but still couldn't see much other than a table.   
He stepped back as footsteps approached.   
Agatha was just slightly shorter than John with greasy brown hair framing her square face. Her eyes looked wild, like an animal's, and her bony fingers had a slight tremor in them, as though she'd had too much caffeine. Or something stronger.   
“Oh, Mr. Wales,” she breathed. “Hello.”   
“Hi, er, Dr—?”   
“Just Agatha is fine. Is there something you need, Mr. Wales?”   
John peered over her shoulder, trying to get a look inside the shed.   
“Erm, no, I just thought—since we both, um, practiced medicine—“   
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Dr. Watson.”   
John's head snapped towards her. She was staring at him intensely, her eyes huge and dark.   
“Sorry, what did you just call me?”   
Agatha pulled a revolver from behind her back, holding it up to John's chest with trembling hands.   
“I called you Dr. Watson. Why don't you come in?”

 


	16. A Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready to have you hearts be broken

The cigarette hanging between his teeth was a sign of, if not nothing, his process becoming rapidly more frustrating.   
He took a long drag, looking out over the cliffs. He had a inkling that the people inside would be disapproving of something like a cigarette.   
He'd put on patches that morning, but even still, after Melodia's death, the problem seemed all the more daunting.   
He looked up at the boarded windows.   
_Gereh.  
_ He felt as though the whole thing would be cleared up if only he knew what lay behind those boards.   
_Why kill people in Blue?  
_ It made no sense. There was no defining number of people who could be in one rank. The system allowed infinite access to the sanctified.   
_So why Blue?  
_ He stubbed the cigarette on a rock, feeling the keen sting of the wind on his cheek. Perhaps it was a jealousy.   
It was a disappointingly simple motive, but an all too common one.   
_Who would be jealous of them? The Yellow? The Red? Who? One person? Many?_  
Questions were abundant. Answers were few.   
  


“Have you seen John?” Sherlock asked Daisy. She scrunched her brow, setting aside the cup of coffee she'd been holding.   
“I haven't. Why?”   
Her voice was so steady. But her knuckles were clenched. Sherlock looked at her, calculating her movements.   
“I'm just concerned,” he said nonchalantly. “With all this terrible affair with Melodia. He was always so sensitive.”   
He reached out to grab her wrist in a comforting manner. Her pulse was racing.   
“Always?” she said softly. “How long have you known Mr. Wales?”   
_What an odd question, for a woman talking about the death of her friend.  
_ “Years now,” Sherlock answered carefully, retracting his hand slowly. “We've been good friends since Uni.” He watched her pick up her cup again, taking another sip of what must've been ice cold by now. She winced slightly.   
“How nice. To have such a close bond. I wish you luck in finding him.”   
And she turned away.   
  
“He's going to find me,” John spat, twisting just slightly in his bonds. “You can't seriously believe you've duped Sherlock Holmes.”   
Agatha had her back turned to him, but he could see she was texting someone. He strained to see the message, but couldn't.   
“I know he's going to find you,” she said, voice level. “In fact, you're going to call him, right now, and tell him you need help.”   
He rolled his eyes.   
“Oh, so it's one of those. You think he hasn't dealt with blackmail before?”  
“Not like this.”   
  
His phone was ringing. Didn't people know he preferred text by now? He hated phone calls. He couldn't see what the other person was doing. Couldn't read them.   
He picked up his mobile. It was John.   
The voice came out raspy:  
_“Sherlock?”_  
_“John? What is it? Where are you?”  
“Sherlock, Sherlock.”   
“Talk to me. Are you hurt? Where are you?”   
“Norbury.”   
_ The call ended.   
Sherlock bolted down the stairs.   
  
“What do you want from him? Hmm? Did he lock you up or something?”   
His voice had gone gravelly. He was starting to panic. He could hear the rain.   
“Much more fun than that, doctor. Doesn't he ever talk to you?”   
“I don't know what you mean.”   
  
He ripped the red ribbon from his wrist. His eyes searching, scanning the room for a door, an entrance. _Where? Where?  
  
_ “Of course you do. Doesn't he tell you? I mean, after Rosie—“  
“Who?”   
  
_The upstairs. He must be upstairs._ He tore past people, shoving them aside to get up the stairs. He knew the layout of the building. _Third floor. Third floor.  
  
_ Agatha stared. “You don't remember her, John? Rosie. Your _daughter_.” His chest tightened.   
“Stop it.”   
  
The door at the end of the hall. It was locked. “Dammit!” he growled, struggling to get the revolver from his belt with shaking hands. He stood back, loading it. He could hear footsteps behind him.   
  
“It was so sad. I even felt a bit bad, you know.”   
“Bad about what?” John whispered. His head was throbbing. The rope around middle seemed to suffocate him.   
“Oh doctor.”   
  
He held the gun up, spinning around to face the people surrounding him. “Get back! Get back! Tell me where he is!”   
“Mr. Holmes,” Daisy said softly.   
  
“The _accident_ , John. Your daughter.”   
“I never had a daughter.”   
“Remember, doctor. You're smarter than they say you are, or Sherlock wouldn't keep you around. Remember it.”   
  
“It was you, all along, wasn't it?” Sherlock said with a bitter smile. “It was you, Daisy Moss. Those children. They're not Davy's. There _his_ , aren't they? Gereh's? You were _jealous_.”   
  
“Please,” John said, a tearing running down his face. “God, _please_.”   
Rain. Rain. Rain.   
  
  
Daisy's face softened. He could've sworn she looked sorry. “Is that what you think, Mr. Holmes? Oh, I do feel sorry for you.”   
  
“Remember, doctor. It was an accident, just an accident. You'd turned away for just a second. But the Thames was just beneath you.”   
“ _Stop_.”   
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock brandished the gun, pointing it in an arc at anyone who tried to get close. “I'm right, I've solved it. Tell me where John is!”   
“You think you're clever.”   
  
“You did what you could. But it was too late, by the time you got down there. Her body was already ice cold.”   
_“Oh God, stop, please.”  
  
_ “Go,” Daisy said, smiling gravely. “Go check upstairs. We won't stop you.”  
He eyed her, but kicked down the door, backing away from them and slamming it.   
  
“And the nurse. The nurse who told you. She was nice, wasn't she? She had to look after you, because you were a danger to yourself. But she had dark, dark eyes.”   
_“Rosie.”_  
  
He ran, up the stairs as fast as he could, holding the revolver with an iron grip. There were so many stairs. Too many.   
  
  
“And they kept telling you, it wasn't your fault. She'd been standing too close, and it was windy. There was an East Wind, John.” 

He reached the landing, but this door was locked too. He yanked, then threw his body against it, but the bolt was too strong. He stood back, pointing his gun at it.   
  
“She didn't die,” John whispered, choking. “She didn't. Victor Trevor, Sherlock's old friend—Redbeard—“  
“Do you believe in the fairy tales you told your daughter, doctor? The ones about the boy and his dog? Do you think they were real?”   
  
He shot at it, but his hands were shaking and he missed. He tried again, this time hitting it.   
  
“You told yourself a better story, John. Your daughter drowned.”   
  
The door gave way.

 


	17. The Voice Speaks Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because.

 

 _John, a women, John in chains, a man behind the door, John weeping, a dead body, John.  
_ The information registered in short sweeps, and he held up his gun, decidedly pointing at Agatha but not neglecting the other door.   
“Whose body is that?” he growled, jerking his head toward a lump covered in a white sheet. Melodia's? No, it was a man.   
“Go find out,” Agatha crooned. John was trembling, his right hand shaking so badly the chains jingled.   
“John?”   
He didn't meant to say his name aloud, and his voice came out softer than he meant it to.   
John didn't answer, but an animal like sob erupted from his throat.   
_Oh God, he remembers.  
_ “Go ahead, Mr. Holmes,” Agatha said. “Go lift up the sheet. Solve the case. Save the Doctor.”   
He moved cautiously, eyes and gun still directed at Agatha.   
He lifted the sheet.   
Gereh's face peered at him, cold and lifeless.  
“ _How_?” he whispered.  
“You're funny, Sherlock,” a familiar voice said. A shiver went down his spine.   
 _"Did you miss me?"_


	18. The Teacup and Cadaver

He spun around to the door, not believing his ears, but sure enough it had swung open and there Moriarty stood, slightly thinner but still the same.   
He smiled his snake-like smile.   
Sherlock was frozen for the third time in his life, unable to move. His gun was aimed at Moriarty's head, but he couldn't pull the trigger.   
“You,” he whispered.   
“Meee,” Moriarty sang. “It's good to see you, old friend. You and Johnny boy.”   
He strode over to John, but Sherlock screamed, “DON'T MOVE!” before he reached him.   
“Ohh, you're feeling sentimental again, Sherlock,” Jim chided. “Didn't your brother warn you?”   
“Sherlock, go,” John rasped, still not looking up at them. “Just. . .go.”   
“Go where?” Moriarty crooned. “There's nowhere to go. This entire estate is filled with people working for me.”

“This whole case was a ruse?” Sherlock was struggling. Struggling to understand. Struggling to move. “Why?”   
“Because, Sherlock,” Moriarty stepped toward him, and he still couldn't pull the trigger, “I get _bored_.”  
“I don't understand. How are you alive?”   
“The teacup, Sherlock.”   
_Teacup. Teacup. Teacup. Moriarty. Teacup. Moriarty takes his tea with milk. Teacup. He picks it up with his_ left _hand.  
Moriarty shoots himself.   
He holds the gun in his _ right _hand.  
_ “Have you figured it out yet? I'm waiting.”   
“You shot yourself with your right hand. You're left handed. I don't understand. You can use both? It doesn't explain how you survived.”   
Moriarty laughed.  
“ _Think_ , Holmes, _think_. What is the one thing it never is?”  
“What?”   
“It's never what, Sherlock?”   
“ _Twins,”_ John choked. “It's never _twins_.”   
And suddenly, it all crashed on him.   
There were _two_ Moriarty's.   
It made sense now. Why that night at the pool he'd left and come back. Why he used the wrong hand to pull the trigger.   
“Your brother, then,” Sherlock rasped. “He was in on all of this? Willing to kill himself, just to destroy my reputation?”   
“It was his idea,” Jim yawned. “Said he was bored with life. Wanted to go out in a bang. Couldn't blame him, really.”   
“This doesn't make any sense.”   
“Some things don't. That's what you never seem to understand, Sherlock. _Humans_ don't make sense. You can't use logic on an illogical being.”   
He felt like water was filling his lungs. This whole thing seemed like a crazy nightmare. He was fighting to register the situation, but all he could see was John, sitting tied to a chair and weeping for his daughter.   
“You're distracteddddd,” Moriarty said, hands folded behind his back. He was being patient. He liked this part. He liked watching people flounder.   
“Why are you doing this?” His voice sounded disappointingly pleading, but the chase, the puzzle, that was all over. This was just torture.   
“I wanted to see the look on your face when I got away with it,” he shrugged.   
“Oh, you're not getting away,” Sherlock snarled, cocking his gun.   
“I think I ammm.” Jim grinned as Agatha held her own weapon to John's head. Sherlock lowered his gun in defeat.   
“Shoot him, Sherlock,” John said. “Do it.”   
“No.”

He was searching the room, searching for answers. Twelve possible exit points. Twenty-two outcomes to the current scenario.   
Moriarty was winning.   
“What do you want?” Sherlock repeated desperately. “Some secret file from Mycroft? Rebuilding your empire?”  
“No,” Jim said, picking at his nails. “The puzzle is it's own reward, as you always say. It's been fun, Sherlock.”   
“Wait, what?”   
“Ring around the roses,” he whispered. “And we all fall—“  
“NO!”  
_“Down.”_   
A shot rang out.   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys. I'm not even being lazy here. The teacup theory is legit; and in original ACD canon, Moriarty DID have a brother of the same name. So. Yeah. It's possible.


	19. Dog Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: MENTIONS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, PLEASE STAY SAFE

_Sometimes, when he was lying on the sofa with a cigarette between his teeth, you'd think if he looked at you any longer he'd kill you.  
It was like looking at a frightening dog, nudging your hand. And the dog seems innocent, but then you can see its teeth.   
And you know it can tear you apart if it only decides to.   
  
_ He'd blacked out at some point.   
It might've been when the gunshot fired—he couldn't remember anything after that. Just Sherlock's face as Moriarty fell backward with a smile.   
Then everything was dark.   
The first thing he noticed when he woke was the beeping of a monitor.   
He was in a hospital bed.   
Sherlock was beside him, looking at the window. Then John realized he was also clutching his hand, stroking it with his thumb.   
“You're awake,” Sherlock breathed when he turned to him. John pulled his hand back. “Sorry,” Sherlock murmured. “It was shaking again.”   
“How could you?”  
“John—“  
“No, how could you let me forget my daughter?”   
For the fifth time in his life, John Watson watched Sherlock Holmes's eyes fill with tears.   
“I didn't want to,” he said quietly. “But you were so afraid, John, and then you forgot and it seemed like you were getting better—“  
“Dammit, Sherlock!”   
Sherlock winced, and John rubbed his forehead, aggravated. He had a headache forming.   
“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock said softly. “Every time I tried to bring her up, you got angry and shut down. You would stop talking to me. Sometimes you'd get drunk or you'd try to get the gun from my room. I had to lock everything up—everything. I haven't touched drugs in months, I didn't want you near them.”   
“Oh God. . . .”   
He'd been a mess. A disaster. A burden. He'd lost his daughter and hurt his best friend. He'd very nearly destroyed himself.   
“Did—did I do anything else?” he said quietly. Sherlock looked away. “There's something you're not telling me.”   
Sherlock rubbed his arm, not meeting his eyes.   
“There's nothing else, John.”   
“Tell me!”   
When he raised his voice, Sherlock cringed. It was just a millisecond, but John caught it.   
Then he knew.   
“Oh Jesus Sherlock. . . .”  
“You were drunk,” he muttered. “You didn't know what you were doing. You never remembered it after.”   
John buried his head in his hands. He'd become a villain. A menace to everyone around him. A menace to the last people in his life he cared about.   
Tears started to spill from his eyes.   
“You really didn't remember,” Sherlock reassured. “I told you that I'd gotten bruised up on a case, and you always believed it. Sometimes you even treated the wounds—bandaged me up. I—I know you didn't mean it.”   
He sounded like he was reassuring himself.   
“I wish it were me instead,” John whispered.  
“What?”   
“I wish I'd been the one to drown.” It would've been easier, so much easier. Then he wouldn't have to live with the guilt—the guilt of never truly loving his wife, the guilt of losing his daughter, the guilt of physically injuring his friend.   
“Please don't say that. I've done everything in my power to prevent it.”   
He'd never seen Sherlock like this before. So raw, so exposed.   
“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am. For hurting you, and never telling you the truth.” He couldn't meet the detective's eyes, and this whole mess, this whole world, seemed far away. Everything was coming out into the open now. No more secrets.   
“The truth?”   
“I—I.” The words were stuck in his throat. “I didn't love Mary,” he finally sobbed, shaking again. His heart monitor spiked, and Sherlock quickly adjusted it to prevent a nurse busting in before grabbing John's hand. “I mean—I—I did love her, in a way,” he sniffled, scarcely looking up to see his friend's expression. “But—I—I was, am, in love with you. I've wanted to tell someone forever, but then I was married and Rosie was born and Mary died and I couldn't even _live_ with myself.”   
It was like a mirror had shattered. All the things he'd wanted to say, all the chaos he knew it would cause. Well, there couldn't be much more chaos then this, could there?   
“Oh John, I know,” Sherlock said gently. “I know, it's okay. I knew—I knew you weren't giving her your whole heart, I just didn't know why. You give your heart out so freely, to the people who scarcely deserve it. If it makes the matter any better, I've loved you since we met, and have never once doubted it.”   
With those words—and the deep, gentle voice they were spoken in, John fully fell apart, falling into Sherlock's arms.   
“It could've been so different.”   
“I know.”   
The dam had finally collapsed, and there was damage to repair.   
  


 


	20. Epilogue

5 YEARS LATER  
  
It was late June and the sun had disappeared a few hours ago.   
John sat in his chair, across from Sherlock's, with a baby in his arms.   
Mary Rose Watson-Holmes was curled up against him, having just dozed off, and he could feel her quiet breathing against his chest.   
She'd been home only a week, but she was already a part of their little family. Mrs Hudson absolutely _doted_ on her. So did Sherlock, especially when he thought no one was looking.   
Still, it had been a painful reminder to John. Taking home a small child, wrapped all in a blanket, of course he thought of Rosie.   
But he reminded himself again and again that Mary Rose was not a replacement, that he would take better care of her, that he now had the person he truly loved at his side.   
He and Sherlock had gotten married last year. It was nothing big, there wasn't even a real proposal. Sherlock just sort of sprung it on him one morning, so they went to get their license and proceeded. Poor Mrs Hudson didn't even know until she noticed John twisting the ring on his finger and screeched. “What do you mean there wasn't a _wedding_? Of course you go off and get married without telling me. Oh, you must be so happy!”   
It had taken work, lots of work, to get there. They'd spent hours in therapy, trying to make sense of all the messes they'd created, trying to sort through all the emotions.   
That day at Brimstone was long forgotten, tucked away in a case file in Sherlock's desk. They'd never been able to prove anything, all they had were the bodies of Gereh (Barry Calhoun) and James Moriarty.   
“I believe you, Sherlock, I do,” Lestrade had said. “It just won't hold up in court.”   
It didn't.   
Daisy and Davy Moss had walked free (Daisy gave birth to Calhoun's seventh child that December) as had Ryver Daely, Agatha Ruckford, and all the others involved.   
John had a feeling blackmail played a part in this.   
But those people quickly disappeared, and they rarely ever spoke about the days they'd spent there. What was important now was the healing.   
With that, they were doing well.   
For it would always be those two.   
And now it would always be those three.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so this is it! It's been a delight to write this, and I hope you'll subscribe for more fics!! I don't know if I'll ever do a sequel or not, but I will certainly be writing, so stay tuned and check out the stuff I already have published!! Thanks for reading :)


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